


Dying Is Fine

by mXrtis



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 15:03:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3733285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mXrtis/pseuds/mXrtis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kavinsky had killed himself a thousand times before. It was kind of therapeutic in a fucked up way. He kept all those pills he made that would flick the vacancy sign on behind his glassy eyes in a box under his bed. He thought it was his mother’s, maybe, some time ago when she sewed or knit or didn’t sell all her jewelry to buy crack. But it was his now, and it housed a slew of candy colored pills<br/>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - <br/>Kinda sorta inspired by Dying is Fine by Ra Ra Riot. Probably ooc?? maybe. Please let me know if it is, I have been trying to get into Kavinsky's character. If you can't tell, I like Kavinsky lmao.<br/>This is sort of a pre-canon events up until Kavinsky's death fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dying Is Fine

Kavinsky had killed himself a thousand times before. It was kind of therapeutic in a fucked up way. He kept all those pills he made that would flick the vacancy sign on behind his glassy eyes in a box under his bed. He thought it was his mother’s, maybe, some time ago when she sewed or knit or didn’t sell all her jewelry to buy crack. But it was his now, and it housed a slew of candy colored pills.

It hadn’t always been so literal. When he was young he would kill bits and pieces of himself; ones that stood out, ones that weren’t considered acceptable by his parents. Something would happen and he would slough off a chunk of his flesh and leave it behind, a bloody hole in the composition of himself. He learned to cauterize the wounds in middle school. The smell of burning flesh filled his skull, and in some of his dreams he saw a graveyard. Mass graves of different versions of himself, dismembered by circumstance, scorched with fear.

By the time Kavinsky got to Aglionby, he had a hard shell of scar tissue. It was easier to kill himself, he was used to it by now. Most situations brought an ultimatum: kill the Kavinsky that they hurt or kill the ones that hurt him. He wasn’t a murderer, he thought. He was a thief, though. He stole from his dreams and he stole bits and pieces of people that were close to him

                         (as close as he could, he always kept people at arm’s length)

until he was just scars and borrowed flesh, electrified and intoxicated.

Almost everything he’d taken had been inanimate, until his second year at Aglionby. Kavinsky remembered running, branches raking across his legs, with someone’s hand in his own. The forest always fought back, but Kavinsky was a thief, a cuckoo in the nest, and he didn’t belong anywhere, even in his own dreams. The world was cruel and there would always be thorns to tear into him. He woke up holding tightly onto the boy,

                         (Prokopenko, the first person to make it past his barbed wire fence)

on top of the blankets on his bed. He grimaced and disentangled himself; vulnerability didn’t suit him. It fit awkwardly on his body and he’d already tried killing the Kavinsky that could wear it easily, but he kept coming back, kept rising again, multiplying.

Kavinsky just stayed there, on his back, until Prokopenko opened his eyes and muttered, “What the fuck happened last night?”

-

He hated Ronan when he first saw him. He hated him because it was so obvious that he _belonged_. Kavinsky had seen him a few times before in his dreams. He didn’t know that he was a real person, the only other human he’d seen was Proko. But Ronan walked through the woods easily. The thorns curled inwards and sunlight followed him. He would grab whatever the trees offered him. The offerings were impossible, unreal artifacts or copies of real things that were just slightly off. He was too passive and Kavinsky resented the fact that these woods were Ronan’s. He didn’t deserve them.

Then, Kavinsky saw Ronan die. A feathered beast mowed its way through the trees, it felled them easily and slammed into Ronan. It dragged its claws down his arms. Ronan disappeared and the beast hit the ground. The next day at school, everyone whispered about the kid that tried to kill himself. When Kavinsky next saw Ronan in the hallway, he winked at him. Some kid by him led him off gently. Proko asked Kavinsky why he had to be such a dick; he just smiled. Ronan was more like him than he thought.

About a month after finding out about Ronan, Kavinsky claimed an abandoned lot as his. This was the first time he started to take the pills. He fucked up on the first batch and ended up putting himself into a coma for a week. According to Proko, he’d just been passed out on the bed for the whole time. Proko brought him home from the lot to let him sleep it off. Skipping wasn’t new to Kavinsky, and his mother was too fucking wasted on whatever she was into that week, no one really asked about him. He woke up with a feeling that another Kavinsky had died during that coma.

-

He started racing Ronan the next year. Kavinsky always lost to him, which pissed him off, but the feeling of wind running through his hair and the speed of it all was incredible. It completely disconnected him from his body, he was a consciousness whirring through the wind and the vessel in the seat was just another alien thing he had forced his way into. Another thing that would reach out with hundreds of hands within it and tear at his skin. Sometimes he’d just go run through the lot with Proko riding shotgun and he’d imagine running into a wall of one of the buildings. He always stopped himself, though, because he knew he wasn’t a killer.

Kavinsky was there when Ronan wrapped that fucking ugly Camaro around a telephone pole. Correction, Ronan was there and wrapped that fuckign ugly Camaro around a telephone _because of_ Kavinsky. Ronan staggered out of the car with blood in his hair and Kavinsky thought of the bird thing that killed him. He was frantic; his skin was peeled back and Kavinsky’s fingers were pressed to a bare nerve. Kavinsky promised to help him out, led him back to his house and let him sleep in his bed.

One thing led to another and now Kavinsky was on the front of one of his cars, his chest opened autopsy style and Ronan rummaged through the graveyard of the rejected versions of him. Vulnerability hung on him like an oversized T-shirt and he hated it. He was burning alive on the sun baked hood of a white Mitsubishi. Kavinsky always told himself that he wasn’t a killer, but here he was, slipping pills to Ronan and asking him to kill himself. 

“Dying’s a boring side effect,” he grinned, baring all his teeth with his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. Ronan downed it with less hesitation than Kavinsky would’ve thought.

-

Ronan left. Of course he did, Kavinsky knew it was going to happen. Ultimatums were bad ideas, he was being unfair, but that’s what he did. He was jealous, he was angry, he wanted to steal Ronan. That was it. He wanted to take him. But, Ronan had carved off a piece of him and took it so casually, so carefully, that Kavinsky hadn’t even noticed and now it was too late for him to cauterize the wound. Kavinsky swallowed hard. He wasn’t a killer,

                         (well, maybe he was. technically he had killed Ronan.)

but he was a thief.

-

Ronan sent his friends off to find his brother. Kavinsky slipped a pill between his teeth. He woke up in the woods, Ronan showed up a few seconds later. Kavinsky felt nostalgia gnawing at his stomach, he remembered the feathered thing and he thought it was fitting that this was how it was ending. He woke up suddenly and as he was falling, his heart caught in his throat.

Kavinsky had killed himself a thousand times before, but it was far harder to do it when he knew he wasn’t going to come back. He thought of the graveyard from his dreams and he pictured himself in one of his many mass graves. He hit hard and heard an inhuman crack come from somewhere inside him.


End file.
